Turbid Waters
by fascimility
Summary: Dark. When does the dusky realm of dreams end and the bitter reality begin? [Edit: Changed this to a collection of short vignettes, not neccesarily connected. Post and Pre-Meiji Era.] Drabbles.
1. Reminiscence

Disclaimer: I wish I did own the characters, but I do not. :)  
  
Author's note: This is my first Rurouni Kenshin fic, so if it's bad just leave a flame and tell me so I will not continue to torture the poor readers. :) Ummm, it's going to be KenshinX Kaoru later on (I think) so please bear with me! I apologise for the really bad language and content, I'm just trying things out. _  
  
Please review! ^.^  
  
*~*Chill*~*  
  
The chilling wind whispers past, its cold arms caressing, its lithe body arching past. The night is ebony, its darkness melding into nothingness as it disappears in the black void. The moon rises starkly, stained crimson and dripping from the nights it has witnessed, nights like this, nights that neither time not the dreams long past can obscure.  
  
Nights that resurface and linger, nights that ride upon the aura of a person, nights that can never be buried under an illusion of reality. Nights that are forever drenched in death, nights in which sanity questions time and mortality.  
  
So it hangs, a mocking crescent reclining against the velvet night, shimmering in an unholy light. It bathes the grove with its eerie glow, illuminating the glistening emerald of the bamboo leaves.  
  
The wind does not subside, whipping up a fury until the whirlwind peaks at a shrill crescendo. Leaves are tossed mercilessly, powerless against the crushing wind.  
  
My left hand rests lightly on the sturdy stem of the bamboo, running my fingers against its ridges. The night, the battle, the struggle for supremacy has yet to begin.  
  
Men pour in from every side, their mouths twisted savagely in a battle cry. The lunge forward, into the clearing, arms raised with their swords drawn in the battle stance. They converge in the centre, shock, surprise written plainly at not finding their quarry.  
  
They have made their move, now it is time for mine. I rush in, legs barely skirting the ground. My hand griping the handle of my sword, feeling the warm trickle of blood drip down to my hands.  
  
I raise the sword, slashing it horizontally across, seeing the cold steel of the blade catch the glint of the moonlight to flash a brilliant scarlet in that instant. Flesh connects with steel as I feel the sharp blade of my sword slice cleanly through.  
  
I am a whirlwind now, spinning the lashing out, body moving so fast that only the tumbling of dead bodies signals my advance. My eyebrows drawn, amethyst eyes flashing as the red haze of death clouds my vision. It makes my nostrils flare out, my hands twitch until I feel the familiar feel of the sword handle against my skin.  
  
I watch detached, as bodies fall around me, lining my path as more fall. They tumble ungraciously, piling atop one another. A crimson stream runs, flowing and pooling in the ground. Blood spurts out , hitting my face and tainting the air with its copper stench.  
  
Boys, men, they all fall like flies. Shock, despair, surprise, etched permanently upon their faces before meeting the cold, merciless blade of the sword. Their hands still grasping the hilt of the blade, fingers wrapped tightly around the leather. Those faces now ghastly ashen, pallid and wan as the colour drains out. I face the other way, eyes averted, focused beyond. A crimson rivulet streams down the side of my face, descending as shattered droplets. The silence descends again, the eerie nothingness pervading everything.  
  
I finger the scar n my cheek, gently stroking its surface, hearing the agonized screams of a young girl far behind. Her crying is isolated, lonely, ringing out in my consciousness like the resounding peal of a knoll.  
  
The girl is hysterical, shrieking, wailing, the pain and hurt apparent in her voice. I hear it now, that pitiful pleading, that desperate crying out as I idly finger the hilt of my sword. I try to block it out, my mind dizzy and whirling.  
  
The world starts to spin crazily on its axis, the sharp detail reduced to a mere blur as the vivid colours run and smudge into each other. I cannot register anything, my senses dulled and slow, pain welling from an invisible wound.  
  
My knees buckle, sending my crashing to the floor, eyes glazed with pain, beads of perspiration dripping, mingling with the blood. I lie in a stupor, unknowing and un conscious, as the last vestiges of reality give way to the shifting illusions of shadows.  
  
Pattering feet, glittering sapphire eyes, gentle hands running through my hair, hot tears falling on my face, the wail of the young girl close to my ear... memories running past, wavering dreams flashing before dissolving into blackness.  
  
The moon hangs magnificent, tinged a deeper scarlet, as its resplendent glow illuminates but the grove of bamboos, catching the glitter of the early morning dew upon the translucent emerald leaves.  
  
"Kaoru." The whisper hangs in the air, riding the passing wind as it lingers, a haunting syllable in the cool night.  
  
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	2. Idealism

***

Chapter 2

***

It echoes in my consciousness, a lone utterance that reverberates in my mind.

My nights dwell in the realm of dreams, plunging me headlong into the stream of my memories.

Some are plagued by the distorted spectres of the past where bitter truths resurface while others are far more pleasant, filled with the wonderful imaginings of the times to come. 

I shake off the thought, trying to clear my head.  The read locks fall on my shoulders in a soft cascade as I sit up.

Stars are twinkling against the velvet sky and the wind is but a mere whisper amongst the leaves.

They seem so unreal in their ethereal beauty, so far removed and untouched by the sins of the mortal world. They are so bright, shining with the intensity of passion that only the innocent possess. 

The innocent are ignorant. The ignorant are blissful. 

Even if they know not of victory, at least they are spared the knowledge of defeat. Even if they live the war in dumb indifference, at least they pass the bloody days with blind oblivion. At least they take no part in the battle. They are spectators, and we, the performers. 

The battle is a stage, with the actors are badly cast. I deign not to play the part of a mere assassin. That is foolishness. I cast the role of a noble swordsman, one whose ideals dictated his actions. 

It was idealism against morality, faith against will, dreams against reality.  

It was into the heart of this anarchy that I ventured into, throwing myself into its currents and watching as I was swept away in its pulsating waters.

I lived in actions, not emotions. 

I submerged myself in the repetitive tediousness of daily routine to drown out time for reflections. When one was an assassin, reflections had no place on one's life. They wrecked a person's soul.

They killed a person by torturing slowly. Reflection meant realisation. It blurred the already wavering line between white and black, and made the unresolved grey areas stand out all the starker. 

In essence, it tore down the defined boundaries of a person's mind and sank him into the uncertain depths of war and of suffering.

It drove a person mad. I avoided emotions, for they represented the more fragile side of man that I could never show.

Once the cold façade fell, insanity would burst forth.

***

The sunrise is beautiful, a canvas awash with a myriad of colours melding and running into each other. It changes its appearance as does a chameleon, shedding its violet to don amber in a matter of seconds. 

This is the one time of the day where I am allowed the luxury of thought, where no one else may intrude noisily upon my privacy. It is the time where everyone is asleep and silence reigns.

And where silence dominates, my thoughts hold sway.

I always wondered how the sun manages to rise, century after century, in all its fiery brilliance, undiminished by the treacherous passing of age. 

It almost hurts to think of the day that this massive light, will too, join the ranks of stars that have faded into nothingness. 

Nothing beautiful lasts forever, whereas nothing hideous ever perishes. That is the eternal truth that governs the world. 

I am already awake, dressed and ready as I stand expectantly.

The resplendent golden ball rises from the murky darkness of its shadowy residence in its flaming glory, untarnished by its brief dwelling in the gloomy abode of the night. It is fortunate, but many others are not as resilient.

Once dragged down to the bogs of darkness and ruin, there they forever lie, condemned to languish in its depths till they find eternal slumber in the flash of a sword.

I was different. I ran in voluntarily, but I rode on the ideals that I stood for, and that has made all the difference.

I became Battousai.

***

Authors Notes: 

This chapter is so short. (and crappy) Sorry everyone! *bows deeply* Oh, I want to thank all the reviewers who reviewed my first chapter. Thank you so much! ^^ Your feedback is very much appreciated and I will make the changes accordingly. Special thanks to ShadowAssasin and Shimizu Hitomi for pointing out those faults :)

This chapter is dedicated to Yui-Mag, without whom nothing would be possible. Your support has made writing this so much easier! And of course to Zansetsu who kind of forced me into this.

This fic is dragging out longer than I thought, so I think I'll focus on Kenshin's past and his life pre-Meiji era first. I will bring things back to the present soon. Hopefully, I will be able to show his transformation from an assassin to a happy rurouni with skill. If there are any points that are still lacking, please tell me ^^ 

Arigatou! *bows deeply*


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